


Early In

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), F/M, Pailing, Poor Life Choices, Riding, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Much to Vriska's pleasure, a new-ish-ly arrived Cronus Ampora is helped along in one of his many poor life decisions by the crew of the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang's ship.





	Early In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mangoeclipse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoeclipse/gifts).



> "Drunken Sailor - an old sea shanty
> 
> "Way hay and up she rises  
> Way hay and up she rises  
> Way hay and up she rises  
> Early in the mornin'
> 
> Put him in the bed with the captain's daughter  
> Put him in the bed with the captain's daughter  
> Put him in the bed with the captain's daughter  
> Early in the mornin'"
> 
> URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGyPuey-1Jw&ab_channel=Momratz"
> 
> yeah, okay. let's see how the captain's daughter takes that.

Dualscar sends his descendants off for training the second they start scraping their horns on a twelfth sweep. Who you go to varies, the older ones have told you, depending on time of sweep you'd been hatched, the wind in the air, or the whims of the gods (of which, you're all certain, your Ancestor is one).

You've got a feeling that the whims of the gods were particularly capricious ones, when he was deciding your assignment, on account of the fact that he placed you with a deeps damned pirate.

* * *

For all that she's a heinous bitch, the Marquis Spinneret Mindfang runs a hell of a tight ship. Within a night of your arrival, you know your exact role and how to carry it out, within a few nights more, you're getting shit done in half the time you'd've gotten it done before, and by the end of a perigee, you're settled enough to relax just a little bit. Kick up your heels and dance, booze and sing with the rest of them—work hard, play hard, that's the way a pirate crew works, is another thing you've learned—but it still takes a quarter sweep before _they_ manage to completely relax around you.

The liquor flows like water, and it's the good shit too. You've known enough to tell the difference based on bottles and taste and whatnot, even when you're halfway to stinking drunk. It's a skill, one you've cultivated, with no small amount of help from your line.

Still. Drunk _is_ drunk.

You're...well. You're not _quite_ aware of how drunk you are, or _exactly_ how relaxed the crew's gotten about your bloodlines, until your crewmates are tipping you into bed with the Captain's descendant for a prank, far too early in the deepsdamn morning.

* * *

Vriska Serket's a halfway decent figure of a troll, and likely on the road to being even better. She takes after her Ancestor, in no small respect, and, if your language can be excused, is a bitch and a half. She's been a thorn in your side since you stepped aboard this boat, needling you each night and day, pushing you to see how far you'll go before you snap. You'd think that she was maybe trying for a pitchquad, if she wasn't so useless about it. No, it's more likely that's she's a bitch, but that's not something you can outright _say_ to a girl who's Ancestor is giving you training and quarter.

So you thought it, and kept your chin up and maybe went a _touch_ harder whenever you sparred. And everyone else had their amused little _chuckle_ over how the Marquise's get treated a fine seaborn like you and went about their night, and maybe, _maybe_ , it made you a bit more one of them, a bit more of a sympathetic figure—

A bit more of a target for exactly this kind of prank.

You're tipped into what you assume, at first, is your own bunk. When you realize it's the softest bed you've slept on in more than a deeps damn sweep, you moan in utter bliss, rubbing your shoulders and face all over the silky sheets, very grateful that you'd let yourself be talked into removing your shirt for that last round of the dancing. It's so glubbing _nice_ that you're barely even bothered when you bump into something of a decidedly warmer hue.

"Seriously, Ampora?" Serket sounds amused, and you think it might be enough to spare you a run of bad luck. You can see her eyes glowing, even in the soft dim of daylight coming from just beyond the curtains, and you flash her your most charming smile. You think it might come out a little goofy. You _are_ a silly drunk.

"Didn't expect to see you here! Have you rolled around yet? It's real fuckin nice."

Her eyes narrow on you, and for a moment, a glorious, pitch-limned moment, you think she's actually going to make something of it. Then she snorts, rolls those same eyes, and flops over onto her side. "Has anyone ever told you that you're fucking pathetic when you're wasted, Ampora? Because I've seen hopbeasts with better constitution!"

Listen. You're a good guy. Pretty chill, and in general, pretty upbeat. You have _fun_ when you're drunk (maybe a little too much fun, if the property damage and injuries were anything to go by), but in general, you're the type to get happy and sleepy when wasted.

But there's some shit that sets a troll off, no matter their state, and Serket's the sort to drag someone right to the edge of their willpower, then push them over while promising to haul them back.

Or something. Your brain's getting a little incoherent right now, because you've decided to move before you actually think. At least, you're going to assume that's why you've pinned Vriska Serket down against her bed, shoved a knee between her thighs, and leaned in so close you can feel her blink. "Yeah, now? Maybe I ought to show you just how pathetic I am."

For the rest of your deeps granted lifespan, you will never quite understand what transpired in Serket's bed in that exact moment of time. Her look of...jubilant triumph, you'd maybe say, was a sight to behold, and the twist she used was a marvel of martial arts, and then she was on top of you, pinning you down, and even in your drunk state you could feel her cerulean-line powers picking at all the edges of your brain. Naught else to do but bare your fangs at her, maybe force her to back off with a mental jab of your own (with a kismesis like that, Dualscar knew a few tricks and taught you well).

And then you have _literally_ nothing else to do but react to you—her—kissing, something, that, you—

Right, okay. She kisses you, and your fins do a drunken flutter, your eyes go wide in shock, and your bloodpusher kicks up a notch, because Vriska Serket is a girl who knows what she wants and how to go about getting it. You wonder where she learned to kiss like a natural disaster taking place in one very concentrated space, and then the thought slips out of your pan like sand in water, because she's got a hand down your pants and _oh_ you've just unfurled.

"Gods, Ampora, I didn't think you were _actually_ as desperate as you seem," she says, and you'd be more offended if it weren't for the fact that she's just a little bit breathless, if she wasn't—you can feel it, whenever she presses up against your knee, your thigh, in half-aborted little motions that tell you she wants to settle down and _rock_ —so wet, if she wasn't the one who was coming off desperate. It's easy to tell, from the way she's throwing herself at you. _Been_ throwing herself at you, your thinkpan amends. You're pretty sure that this latest encounter is fairly solid fucking proof that Vris Serket really is just that bad at flirting. "When's the last time you filled a pail?"

"Hm," you tell her, running a hand up her sleep shirt, just so you can drag knuckles down her spine. "Dunno. Does it count if I used another troll as the pail?"

Watching her reaction to that is priceless. The way her eyes go wide, the way her lips part—you can't tell if she's near to drooling, or if her mouth suddenly went a little dry. She _does_ have to swallow, though, before she can attempt a reply. "You're a degenerate," she informs you, and you break into another grin. "You're a degenerate, and I'm going to fuck you dry."

"Aye aye, Cap'n," you reply, then hiss when she yanks your wrists up, pinning both of them under small hands of her own. Her frown is cute, and you watch her cast an eye about the cabin for anything to bind you with, let her think it over, before you jerk your hips up.

You'll be honest—if you'd known Vris Serket could moan like that, you would've sat her down on a pail far earlier than this. But right now, you're at a disadvantage. She's got home turf, she's got you sort of pinned, and you're drunker than you'd actually like to admit. It matters less, when she leans down to kiss you again, and even less than that when she hauls your pants down just enough, rucks her shirt up just a bit—oh, deeps. She didn't even bother with sleep shorts or underwear. You don't wanna admit that it's kinda hot, but, well. It really, truthfully, is.

"Too wasted to handle me right, Ampora?" Her voice is nearly as much a taunt as her eyes, and you smirk, at the feeling of her trying to prod around your thinkpan. "I _can_ take care of that."

"I'm good, doll," you tell her, and sink your claws into her hips. "C'mere."

Your tug doesn't do much (alright, fine, maybe you're a _little_ tipsy), but she obliges anyway, her hips just above yours, dripping nook rubbing soft against your bulge. "You're stubborn," she gasps out, almost as distracted by the slick slide as you. "Let me _in_."

Your laugh is a couple notes higher and just a touch breathy. "Hard pass," you say, and roll up, sheathing yourself inside her in one smooth flow.

Serket, when she's not wrapped up in her own head, is a beautiful little thing. Her back curves in a way that'd make the deeps themselves sing, and your hands run down it in your own form of holy worship. Whatever it is that she's got on you, you think you'd happily let her have it for several moments more.

Her eyes are wild, when you catch sight of them again, and her claws cut furrows in your shoulders that you'll be showing for a perigee or more. You've no cause for complaint, though, basking in the focus of her attention, all of her driven to tear you apart. Your own personal hurricane, a beautiful sort of storm; she rocks herself down and you roll yourself up to meet her, wave to wave turning the whole ocean into a mass of writhing foam—it's poetry of the worst sort, unbridled hate without a backpitch burn, and you revel in it, all of you feeling alight.

When you roll her over, you think she might halfway decide to kill you—two thrusts, and then she lunges again, taking you to your back and pinning you there. Even if you're stronger than her, in your opinion, it's more fun to make _her_ desires work. You've always been the type to enjoy a challenge, even when it leaves you sprawled on your back and fighting up.

"Admit it, Ampora," she says, and you're pleased to note that it's her turn to be breathless, "you've wanted me since you came aboard."

"I've wanted a lot of things," you allow, thrusting up into her in a way that makes her cry out. "But I'll be happy to say you're one if that's what you want."

Another snarl rips out of her, and you wrap your hand around her bulge, stroking her off in time with your movements, a purr resonating deep in your throat. To you, the situation is simple: A pretty troll, an excellent lay, a solid pitchfuck, you're not picky, so long as you get where you'd been wanting to go. In this case, you wanted to get under Vriska Serket's skin, and you _definitely_ have. "Bastard," Vriska hisses at you, and you laugh.

"Sweet words from a sweet girl," is the taunt you give, and you can _feel_ the burn of rage rolling off her as she spills, sea-bleed cerulean shining all across your skin, a pool of color that gives her a moment of satisfaction before you fill her up like she's a godsdamn pail. "Now look at you, you pretty little thing."

You're damn sure she didn't expect this. She's taken aback, violet and blue leaking out of her nook alike, her mismatched eyes wide.

You're also damn sure she's ready to rebound and take it like a champ.

"You're a fucking degenerate," she says.

"Already called me that."

"And I _also_ told you," Vriska tells you, lifting herself off your bulge with an ease that makes _your_ eyes go wide, "that I was going to pail you dry."

It's not until she's got your legs up over your head and her own bulge buried so deep inside you that you can feel the scrape of her sheath that you realize you _may_ have underestimated just how far Vris Serket was willing to go to win.

* * *

Early in the evening, when the sun's just set and the tides are taking a break and Vris has _actually_ made good on her threat to pail you dry, you hear the creak of a cabin door, see the gleam of another Serket's eyes. That's the exact moment that you know what you should've known the moment you took this assignment—you're gonna be in deep trouble, like no Ampora ever was before. And the worst isn't even that you think you might like it.


End file.
